


The Wolf At Your Door

by Littlebiscuits



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Collars, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Obedience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 10:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16324736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlebiscuits/pseuds/Littlebiscuits
Summary: Rook eyes the narrow strip of black leather, that Jacob's holding in his lap, with a certain amount of cautious mistrust.





	The Wolf At Your Door

Rook eyes the narrow strip of black leather, that Jacob's holding in his lap, with a certain amount of cautious mistrust. 

It's a dog collar. It looks shiny and new, and Rook would guarantee that it's never been round the throat of any judge. Jacob had told him once that collars were for domesticated pets, not wild animals, not soldiers. Half of Rook wants to be insulted, to show Jacob his teeth, and refuse everything, the other half of him wants Jacob to pin him down and wrestle it round his throat. But Rook's never tried to pretend that this messy thing he has with Jacob isn't complicated.

"Come here." It's more demand than suggestion, but that might just be the natural timbre of Jacob's voice, the natural expectation of obedience.

"And if I don't?" Rook's spent too long pushing back against all of them to roll over on command. What he wants has rarely mattered. 

"Then I come over there and I strap this round your throat, then punish you for your disobedience." Jacob's smiling, and Rook knows damn well which option Jacob would prefer. Rook's made worse decisions, and even Jacob's punishment, Jacob's lessons, can't seem to make him stop coming here. But Rook would rather not do it the hard way, if given the choice.

He crosses the room, sinks to his knees in disgruntled annoyance at Jacob's pointed gesture. But he tips his head back without having to be asked - without having to be told - when Jacob rises.

"Good boy." Jacob's voice is all warm satisfaction, as if he thinks Rook has potential. When Rook has been coming here long enough to have proved that already, more than proved it, said something about his stupidity and his desperation too.

He stays still under the circle of Jacob's hands, for the stiff, scratching rasp of cold leather, that Jacob slides against the skin of his neck, securing it slowly with an indulgent sort of patience. He grips Rook's throat above the line of it after, a moment of rough, clenching fingers, and warmth, and appreciation. It's not the first time that Rook wonders if he's trusting a man who's going to snap his neck. But Jacob hums something pleased, stops touching, considers him as if he's deciding how best to enjoy the decoration.

"I'm not your guard dog." Rook means it to be firm, but it comes out thick and heavy instead, where his throat flexes against leather, where he can feel the press and dry scrape of it, every time he turns his head. It's heavier than it looked, and there's the faintest click of metal where the ring is too loose, too close to the catch. Because Jacob wanted it to be. Rook's life lately feels full of things that Jacob wants - that Jacob wants, and Rook finds himself wanting by proximity, or in self defence. Because of what they promise, because they make Jacob look at him the way he's looking at him now.

"Aren't you?" Jacob's fingers slide into the gap, far enough to pull it tight, to make sure Rook is swallowing against the slow press of his knuckles. "I think you'd be a good dog, that you'd set your teeth into anything you didn't like the look of, bite down until you felt bone, until it stopped shaking and thrashing in your grip." A thumb presses to the hollow in Rook's throat, a considering moment of pressure that feels too warm to be a threat.

"You expect me to do what I'm told?" Rook asks - though he isn't sure if that's the right question. 

Jacob huffs a laugh, squeezes the leather until it creaks, until Rook's neck stretches in his grip. And Rook never feels quite so breakable as when Jacob has his hands on him.

"No," Jacob admits. "I expect you to be wilful, and stubborn, and destructive, the same way you always are. But for now -" Jacob stops and pulls, gently, encouraging Rook to slide on his knees towards him or choke, and Rook's not going to pretend he isn't a little tempted to pull, to resist, to see what it gets him. "For now you can be all of that on a leash, for me."

Rook shifts forward, closer, until Jacob's boot makes him stop, raised against his knee like punctuation.

"You can be good for me, can't you?" It comes out like there's gravel in Jacob's throat, not a request, something he wants.

Rook remains stubbornly silent, won't give him that, because as much as Jacob craves obedience, as much as it satisfies him, it also bores the shit out of him. Rook needs to push against being told what to do, almost as much as Jacob needs to drag it out of people. And that's the messy point where they meet, all violence and resistance, and desperate, twisted-up desire. Rook can't make himself stay away, can't make himself stop. This whole thing started hard and messy, when they both stepped over a line they hadn't seen, turned violence into something sharp and warm.

The fact that Rook tries so hard to pretend he doesn't want it - he thinks Jacob enjoys that too.

Jacob tangles a hand in his hair, levering his head back and forth, forcing him to nod, and Rook's startled by how much he likes it, almost against his will. By the almost-angry pulse of lust that clenches in him, makes him spread his knees, and breathe, and let Jacob run the show.

They both know where this is going, they both know, and it's just a matter of how long Jacob wants to wait, how long he wants to play at ownership before it spills into something else. Rook knows it won't be long, he can feel the hum of approval, the way Jacob shifts minutely above him, and on anyone else that would be restless, that would be eager, but Jacob won't give him that.

Instead he encourages Rook forward, opening his belt and unzipping himself, exposing the stretched fabric of his underwear pulled tight over him, before Jacob's pushing that down too. His cock is already full, heavy and flushed and tipped down towards Rook. Jacob grunts like Rook knows what to do, knows what Jacob wants from him. When they both know what Jacob wants most is to push at Rook's messy, reluctant obedience. Almost as much as Rook wants him to do it. There's a noise, a shaken moan that sounds needy, and Rook thinks it comes from him.

Jacob breathes amusement, and the grip in Rook's hair pulls him forward, like a reward.

"Open your mouth," Jacob tells him.

Rook does as he's told, he lets Jacob grip his jaw, and hold him, and guide himself inside. Jacob's cock is thick in his mouth, the stretch of it heavy and constant. Rook's forced to open wider, press down his tongue and take the slide. His mouth isn't wet enough, he can feel a dry choke, a cough building in his throat.

Jacob pulls back, all the way out, tightens his hand in Rook's hair, gives a huff of feigned disappointment, do your job, the grip says, get it right.

Rook coughs and swallows, swallows again, wets his mouth, then opens it. There's a grunt of satisfaction, and this time when Jacob slides in it's easier, the weight of it dragging across his tongue, and the steady, easy pushes slowly go deeper. Until Rook's swallowing against the head of Jacob's cock, breathing harsh, wet exhales, saliva trailing out of his mouth when Jacob pulls back, and judging by the satisfied noises Jacob makes, he's not going to be chastised for the mess.

Rook lifts his hands, means to touch, to cup where Jacob is tightening, to brace himself on his solid thighs. But the hand in his hair slides away, fingers pushing back into the front of the collar, twisting it just enough that it chokes the air out of him.

He stops, wheezes out a sound.

"Just your mouth," Jacob demands. "Leave it open." His voice has gone low, so low that Rook can feel it at the base of his spine, tight and then tighter while he takes Jacob in, and in, throbbing in his own jeans, rolling stabs of sharp, impatient lust that he doesn't even know if Jacob will let him push to any sort of completion. He doesn't think that's what this is about, this is about Jacob making him a thing that he owns, a thing that he can use. Rook should hate it, he should fucking hate it. But instead he finds himself opening wider, leaning his weight forward, and making wet, strangled noises on every shove of Jacob's hips. His own hands are clenched tight on his thighs, because he knows if he touches himself, if he drags his jeans open, Jacob will stop him, will make him pay for it.

Jacob's hand relaxes, though he's using the collar for leverage now, drawing Rook in and then easing him back, watching his mouth hollow, before Jacob fills it on every push. He does it over and over, that same slow pace, until Rook's breathing in long, wet rasps, jaw aching, knees stiff on the floor. But Jacob's control isn't absolute, and eventually there's a catch in every punched-out exhale, a greediness to every sliding shove. His fingers squeeze into the leather, pulling Rook in, movements not as careful, smoothness gone. 

Rook can see the way Jacob's thighs flex and tighten, the way his mouth has dropped open, soft and wet inside, white teeth beyond the gap that clench every time he fills Rook's mouth. Before Jacob is pushing Rook's head down, angling in, and crowding closer. The next shove is quick, deep enough to push against Rook's throat, an ache at the back that makes it tighten and jerk in warning. But Jacob stops there, fingers digging into the collar, stealing an inch of the leather, while he groans and grinds in, breathes a mangled line of praise, of satisfaction. Rook shudders under it and chokes a moan, before Jacob's coming hotly against the back of his throat, across his tongue, and Rook has to swallow, in awkward little flexes that want to be coughs.

Rook's held there, through the slow, twitching jerks of it, until Jacob is satisfied, until he pulls out slowly, still slick, trailing come across Rook's tongue and the bruised swell of his lip.

Then Jacob rubs at the redness of his mouth, while Rook swallows and coughs, eyes watering.

"You did good," Jacob says, all reluctant, breathless approval.

But Rook knows what that means, breath rasping in. Jacob's pulling him to his feet, and Rook can't help the low hiss at the heaviness of his own need, when he's pushed back against the desk. Jacob's fingers curl back inside the collar, where Rook is warm and damp, throat underneath still thick and sore. Jacob's other hand is tearing the front of Rook's jeans open, pushing them down further than he needs to, exposing everything, and Rook's dragging him close and pushing into his grip the moment he touches him. Jacob's hand is too tight and too dry, but Rook's already too close, too needy, nothing in his ears but the pound of his own blood and his own desperate, aching need to come.

It's nothing, a shove of hips and a handful of almost brutal, sliding jerks and Rook gives a broken, half-sob of relief when Jacob takes him all the way, _demands_ it of him. He lets Rook moan his way through it, lets it run over his fingers while Rook twitches and shoves, and then grates to a stop when it's too much. Until Jacob's holding him up, holding him against the solid heat of his body, hands moving on Rook's bare skin, petting him almost. 

"You did good," Jacob tells him again, and Rook doesn't know whether it's the truth, whether Jacob means it, or if it's just another way to reel him in, like a goddamn fish.

But he can't quite make himself care.


End file.
